


Shifting eyes and vacancy vanished when I saw your face

by all_soul



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy
Genre: F/F, Minor Fyodor "Fedya" Ivanovich Dolokhov/Anatole Vasilyevich Kuragin, Pining, Prompt Fic, burn - Freeform, count rostov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:21:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25945003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/all_soul/pseuds/all_soul
Summary: Helene knew she couldn't attend parties with the person she wanted to go with. That didn't stop her from wishing. Or from staring.Part of a prompt swap with @fuck_the_birds
Relationships: Marya Dmitryevna Akhrosimova/Elena "Hélène" Vasilyevna Kuragina
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	Shifting eyes and vacancy vanished when I saw your face

Hélène had a date for this ball. It wasn’t Anatole, who usually accompanied her to these things. Nor was it Pierre, the man the whole of Moscow was shoving at her, nor was it the person she actually wanted to attend with.

That person - Marya Dmitrievna - had a certain reputation. That is, the exact opposite of Hélène’s.

Hélène’s eyes roved over the crowd, half hoping she wouldn’t find her. Naturally, Marya stood at the very center of the room - where she hated being - accompanying Count Ilya Rostov, her long-time friend. It was almost comical really, seeing them together. They both violated every stereotype for their roles and sexes, emphasizing how diametrically different they were both in terms of societal expectations, and next to each other. A bold, tall, tenacious woman that people never got within a meter of beside a short, submissive man whose status was indicated only by his estate due to his meek demeanor. 

Maybe that was why Hélène took such an interest in Marya: she was a thousand contradictions. Traditional, yet defiant. Vengeful, yet dismissive. Brash, yet particular. Even Hélène’s attraction to her was contradictory: Marya’s thousand layers represented every bit of duplicity that made navigating aristocratic society such a tedious task. Yet they were endlessly fascinating.

Even physically she contradicted herself. Gray eyes like falling in a dream burned, hair the color of wildfire held complacent with meticulous pin-work.

Hélène was staring. She shook herself, arm tightening around Fedya’s.

“You’re on edge tonight,” Fedya said, “What could possibly rattle you so?” He turned to follow her gaze and she quickly looked away. “Ah.” 

“It is rather hopeless, isn’t it,” Hélène mused as they swanned across the floor. If Marya cast a barrier around herself, a ring of fire searing anyone who approached, Hélène and Fedya commanded a court. King and queen of every ball, they cleared a path simply by striding past. Eyes followed their every snicker and sideways glance, conversations growing hushed as if to permit the whisper of Hélène’s skirt to fill the room. She lived for this.

Accepting a glass of champagne from an attendant, she looked up at Fedya with a knowing twist of her mouth. “You seem to be in just as deep as I,  _ ma cher _ ,” she said. “Where is my dear brother anyway?”

“You know him-” Fedya nodded over to Hélène’s left, where Anatole stood surrounded by a gaggle of admirers, jaunty smile in place, hand poised elegantly on the hilt of his sword. “Center of attention, as always. Come to think of it, doesn’t your dragon hate these parties? Can’t remember the last time I saw her out like this.”

Hélène tilted her head, eyes flicking back over to Marya. “Hm. I bet Rostov had something to do with it. What she sees in him, I have no idea.”

“His children aren’t very bright either, are they. Nikolai owes me forty two thousand rubles.”

“But not all of them, hm, Fedya?”

Fedya’s bicep tensed under hand.

“Oh come now, you know I’m teasing,” Hélène said, taking a sip of her champagne.

He nodded stiffly, and the sounds of the band tuning their instruments abruptly cut off, turning his and the crowd’s attention to the stage.

As the musicians dragged out the delicate beginning note, Hélène released Fedya’s arm. “Shall we?”

Fedya offered his hand. “Of course,  _ mon charmeur _ .”

They took to the dancefloor in a flurry of skirts and shining medals, the first among the gathering crowd, taking their place at the center of the room. The music began to escalate into one of Hélène’s favorite pieces, and she smiled as men’s hands found women’s waists and drew them into a deep, sweeping circle. Her heart soared, momentum widening her smile as Fedya expertly lifted her into the air. They spun and sailed about, chandelier light glittering on intricate gold embroidery, on Hélène’s champagne glass, left on a table by the dance floor, and on red hair.

Heat flooded Hélène’s stomach.

That red hair whistled past her face as she arched back in a low dip, so close stray hairs brushed her face.

A sharp intake of breath left her winded in the ardent dance. Her neck craned back, sending a jolt of pain up through it as she was yanked to the side, but Marya was disappearing into the crowd of dancers and shock coursed through Hélène.

Marya never danced.

The rest of the piece lasted an age, and Hélène returned to the table immediately after it finished, pursued by a confused Fedya. She looked over the room, searching for Marya, and maybe a reason for her uncharacteristic comportment. First hovering in the middle of a crowd, now dancing?

Marya stood at the edge of the dance floor with Count Rostov, out of breath, but still standing straighter than anyone else in the vicinity. She held a glass of champagne too, which she hated. What in the world had befallen her?

“Hélène,  _ cheri _ , what’s going on?” Fedya said, touching her arm.

Hélène didn’t turn, eyes still focused on Marya, who was now waving away Count Rostov’s offered hand. “Get us more drinks, will you, Fedya,” she murmured, already moving away from the table. She quickly crossed the dance floor, glancing around before approaching Marya. She couldn’t help the way her heart leapt as she got closer.

Marya’s hand stilled in the air, shock written all over her face. She looked quickly to the side at Count Rostov and gave Hélène a meaningful look.

Hélène nodded toward an adjacent hallway, and held up five fingers, low to avoid being seen.  _ Meet me there in five minutes. _

Marya looked dubious, glancing again at Count Rostov before meeting her eyes. She nodded tersely.

Hélène nodded back, and hurried toward the doorway perhaps less discretely than she should have. She couldn’t bring herself to care as, glancing back, she caught a glimpse of gold jewelry and a scarlet jacket matching her steps. She ducked into the hallway, grabbing her skirts and pulling them out of view, anticipation and curiosity building as she waited.

Marya slid into the hallway soon after, head down (for all the good it would do. Hair like hers wasn’t exactly subtle). “What’s this about,” she hissed, drawing Hélène into an alcove. A shaft of moonlight cut through the drawn curtains, curving over Marya’s cheekbone and her pointed noise, lending her the look of a bust carved from marble.

Hélène blinked.

“What has possessed you tonight, Masha?” she asked, sliding her hands up and gripping Marya’s jacket collar, pulling her closer so the moonlight shone over her hair, face cast in shadow.

“What on Earth do you mean?”

“You know how I encourage you stepping out of that shell of yours,  _ cheri _ , but all at once?”

“What?”

“Entertaining like this, it’s not like you. You talk so often of how little you care for Rostov’s circle, for dancing, and for champagne.” She fiddled with Marya’s collar, running her thumb over the material. “Have you lost a wager? Been gambling?”

Marya took her wrists and pried them from her collar, holding onto them between their chests. Despite the circumstances, a drop of heat began to spread between her hips. She did love how Marya manhandled her.

“I am more than allowed to explore new avenues, Elena,” she said coldly, jolting Hélène back to reality.

Uncertainty clenched in her chest. “Of course, I am only curious-”

“Is that all you wanted to ask about?”

“I suppose so.”

“The world is not owed my consistency,” Marya said, tone softening. She loosened her grip on Hélène’s wrists, taking her hands and lowering them.

“Of course not,  _ ma cher _ .”

“What have I said about your French, Yelenka.”

Hélène lifted up on her toes, pressing a kiss to Marya’s cheek. “I must have forgotten. You will teach me again, won’t you?”

“You’re insufferable.”

“What can I say? It’s one of my best qualities.”


End file.
